


To Measure Goodness By What We Embrace

by Nymora



Category: Chocolat (2000), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Chocolate, F/M, Food Porn, Trope Bingo Amnesty, Trope Bingo Round 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymora/pseuds/Nymora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For most of her life, Darcy’s waited for the north wind to find her. She just never expected it to show up in New Mexico, in the form of a Norse god of thunder and lightning. A Clint/Darcy slow-burn fic, in which chocolate does a lot of the talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Measure Goodness By What We Embrace

**Author's Note:**

> _Chocolat_ fusion, where Darcy is Vianne's granddaughter and inherits the family gift for chocolate-making. You can probably muddle along if you haven't seen the movie, but you should totally see it anyway because it's great.
> 
> For the "food porn" square of my Trope Bingo card, which I might (!) be able to finish by amnesty time now that the semester is almost over (!!).

For most of her life, Darcy’s waited for the north wind to find her. “Just like Maman,” her mother always said, fond and sorrowful as she smoothed Darcy’s dark hair back from her brow.

She just never expected it to show up in New Mexico, in the form of a Norse god of thunder and lightning. But she’s standing in the weird circle in the sand and the chill tingles up her back and she _knows_ , even though she tries her best to fend it off with the police taser her father first slipped in her bag when she was sixteen.

Naturally, that only makes things worse.

After the whirlwind of Thor, though, Darcy’s resigned herself and her mother’s voice in her head to her fate, and so when the aftermath of the Destroyer takes her from running around the ruins of Puente Antiguo into the kitchen at Izzy’s diner she doesn’t fight it. The only mail waiting at the post office was a giant box of chocolate, postmarked to Darcy from France, and while yesterday she might have tried to tell herself it was a late birthday present Darcy knows better now than to doubt her grandmère's intuition.

She’s just finished the last batch of truffles when the kitchen door opens, and while she’d hate to get chocolate all over her taser she’s willing to take that risk. But of the three SHIELD agents she now recognizes by sight he’s one of them, the guy who always hangs in back of Coulson and, between the biceps and the nose, looks a lot like a boxer.

Though judging from the way he’s zeroing in on her and her surroundings, she might have to reassess that assumption.

“Okay,” he says, eyes tracking the pyramids of truffles, the neatly-cut squares of chocolates, the little confections she had to wrap in tinfoil and plastic wrap instead of fancy waxed paper. “Not what I was expecting to find when Coulson sent me to track down Foster’s intern, but I can work with this.”

“I bet you can,” she snorts as he moves in closer, his eyes fixed on the tinfoil-wrapped treats. It’s both weird and interesting, the way her hand automatically lifts to swat him away when he tries to snatch one up. From the look on his face, he feels the same. “You won’t like those, they’ve got raspberry filling,” she hears herself say, and she knows she’s right even before his nose wrinkles in disgust.

“Good guess,” he says, backing off. “Jesus, lady, you planning on giving Russell Stover a run for his money?"

"Stover?” she sniffs, rinsing her hands dry even though there’s still an itch in the back of her brain and a tiny pile of dark chocolate left on the countertop. Not that she’d even think of leaving it behind, Grandmère would walk all the way from France to yell at her if she did. “That hack? Please. My grandmother could make better chocolate with her eyes closed and hands tied.”

“But not you.” He says it like a question; no, a dare, and damn it, Darcy’s never been good at turning those down. Of all the things she’s made—the chocolate-dipped caramels touched with sea salt, the mixed-berry toffee, even one of her favorites, the white chocolate tequila-lime truffles—nothing seems quite right, but when she looks at the dust and exhaustion on his face her hands drift toward the truffles she just finished, and she places a few on a napkin.

“Try these,” she says, and slides them his way. Of course, he pops the whole thing in his mouth. His eyes fly open, wide and bright, before sliding closed as he slowly begins to chew.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, and she grins to herself as she continues to clean up her mess. “These are—what’s in these?”

“Dark chocolate, cinnamon, chili powder,” she recites, carrying the bowl that had the chili-cocoa coating in it over to the sink. Thankfully, she’s been cleaning as she goes, trying to leave Izzy with one less mess to worry about when she gets to come back into town. “Gives it a little pick-me-up. I usually make a hot chocolate like that, but truffles seemed like a better idea.”

His eyes light up. “Hot chocolate?”

 _Of course_ , she thinks, even as another part of her brain whispers, _Not yet_. She goes to put away the little bottle of vanilla and lo and behold, tucked in the back is a tiny sample-sized bottle of bourbon, just waiting to be discovered. She pulls it out and, after a moment’s pause, grabs the vanilla again as well. “It’s my grandfather Roux’s favorite,” she says, tamping down the thrill that goes up her spine, trying not to think of how well this guy would blend in with the river folk she barely remembers from her childhood. God, she doesn’t even know his name.

“But for you,” she continues, waving the little bottle of whiskey, “I’m thinking something a bit different, right, Agent..?”

“Barton,” he says, eyes locked on the bottle. “And that’s probably a bad idea.”

“Bad idea, or the _best_ idea?” she counters. Look at that, that little pile should make just enough hot chocolate to fill one of Izzy’s mugs, so long as she spikes it well and tops it off with a dollop of fresh vanilla whipped cream.

“Okay, I’ve had worse ones,” he admits, and she laughs.

* * * * *

_what’s on the menu today?_

 **Nipples of Venus** , she texts back to Clint, just to see what he’ll say. It’s actually milk chocolate, molded in celestial shapes and filled with a Grand Marnier liqueur; Jane’s been focused on work even more than usual, and could use a taste of sunshine.

He takes a while to respond, but that could be because of, well, anything really. Clint hasn’t told her much about what he does but Darcy’s always been good with computers, and her second instinct was right: he’s a sniper, level 6, assigned to some project that’s so mysterious it doesn’t even have a location listed in the SHIELD database.

 _i’ll give you $20 if you tell Coulson you fed Dr. Foster chocolate-covered nipples_ , comes back through eventually, and she rolls her eyes.

**no deal. son of coul’s scary, even when he keeps Garcia from e-mailing Jane’s SHIELD address to beg me for more truffles. >_<**

 _I can shoot him for you_ , he replies, much faster than before.

**Coulson? :O Barton, we need to talk about your death wish**

_Garcia. Say the word and I’ll cap his ass._

**that’s very sweet, but don’t worry about it. pretty sure you’ve got bigger fish to fry and all that.** She hesitates, but it’s too funny to pass up adding,  **b** **esides, at least now he’s only asking for truffles and not my number. :)**

 _obviously he doesn’t know how many smiley faces you use, Lewis._ It makes her frown, because sure, they bonded over handing out chocolates that night to the exhausted agents and scientists, and Clint had even helped her do dishes, but whatever’s building between the two of them isn’t solid by any means. Darcy knows he’s done a lot more growing up than she’s had to do, and she thinks—no, feels—she’s got a few more places to go before she gets to wherever he is.

A minute later, her phone buzzes, the unlisted number a hint in and of itself. ~Miss Lewis, may I ask you to refrain from agitating my agents, particularly when they are on the clock?~

The grin will stay on her face for hours, but for now, Darcy quietly sets her phone aside so she can lure Jane away from the arms of science and outside for some fresh air.

* * * * *

When she gets up at seven in the morning just to scour the area’s markets, Darcy thinks it might be a bad sign. But they just arrived in Norway, and between the jet lag and lingering worry about their funding beyond this conference even Darcy’s been a little bit stressed.

Then she hacks the computer at the lab, and suddenly the plastic container sitting in the mini-fridge makes a lot more sense.

Except Jane refuses to touch what she makes, can barely be convinced to eat normal food until they touch down in Manhattan, looking for answers that nobody wants to give them. “I don’t understand, Grandmère,” she whispers into the phone, as once again SHIELD’s must-be-brand-new firewalls keep her out of their files. “She needs me, but it’s not…”

“Perhaps they are not hers,” Grandmère says thoughtfully.

“It’s not like they could be for anyone else,” Darcy says, peevish over lack of sleep and the lack of respect SHIELD’s shown Jane after their boys’ club stole all of her science. “Like, I’m sure it’s been rough here in New York, but Jane—”

“You can’t choose where to go or who to help, ma petite,” Vianne sighs. “That is not how this works.”

“I know, but it sucks.”

“Darcy!” Grandmère gasps, laughing, which is probably legit since the French equivalent of “sucks” that she used is probably a bit stronger than it should be. Come to think of it, that’s one of the words Grandpère Roux taught her when they were fishing down by the river. “Such language.”

“Sorry, Grandmère.”

But thinking of her grandfather’s filthy mouth tugs on a memory: Clint, sending her a series of shocked emoticons, when she told him the phrase Roux had taught her to say to the sour-faced woman who led her Sunday school and called her mother a “French hussy.” She’d seen him on the TV, watched his arrows arc through the air with a silent thrill even as the sight of Thor made her want to punch somebody. **nice shooting** , she’d texted him, but he had yet to reply.

The next day, when they find Erik, she learns why.

* * * * *

When she headed back to New Mexico with Jane, Darcy left the plastic container with Erik, now wrapped in tissue paper and tied with the purple ribbon she found in a Hallmark store. “I don’t know if I can do this, Darcy,” Erik had said when she told him what it was and who they were for.

“Sure you can, big guy,” she’d said, giving him a smile and a slug on the arm. “You got this.”

“I’ve got this,” he repeated, hands shaking.

When two weeks pass Darcy’s convinced that something’s gone wrong, that maybe the tug behind her hands and heart was a passing fad, one last gasp of her mother’s bloodline before it gave up the ghost. Jane is miserable but determined to pretend like she’s not, Erik is nowhere to be found, and Darcy knows this is where she’s supposed to be but isn’t sure she can trust that feeling anymore.

Then one night, when she’s on top of the camper stargazing, her phone buzzes. Another unlisted number. “Agent,” she says, sighing. “Look, this isn’t—”

“Darcy?”

She nearly drops the phone. He sounds rough, and tired, and they’ve barely spoken but she knows him. “Clint? What happened to your phone?” she blurts before considering that oh yeah, maybe he had to change his number after calling up criminals on behalf of Thor’s fucking asshole brother.

“Long story,” he sighs. “Listen, I can’t stay on long but I wanted to say thanks.”

“You got them?”

“Yeah, yeah I did.” Her heart aches for him, even though he sounds so normal. “Took me a while to get brave enough to eat ‘em—”

“Yeah, they looked kinda gross,” she admits.

“But they were… they were really good."

Closing her eyes, she can almost conjure them up from memory: the hint of vodka, a cold bite of peppermint, and almond butter she’d had to make herself, all coated with dark chocolate; something rich and strange on the tongue, heavy but solid. Despite years of experience, they’d turned out messy and unfinished, the first of their many frustrations.

“I’m glad,” she says, and she wants to offer him a place to stay, wants to offer a refuge from what must have been the worst thing to ever happen to him even if he never wants to speak of it again.

 _Not yet_ , whispers the north wind, and she scowls.

“Anyway, thanks,” he says quickly, and hangs up the phone. Shaking her head, she sets it aside and gives her knuckles a decisive crack. Jane’s been talking about setting up shop somewhere else, and Darcy’s more than inclined to wander with her for a little while longer.

* * * * *

She kisses Ian because after almost a year of wandering she doesn’t feel any closer to where she needs to go, and more and more she feels acute waves of sympathy for her mother and the way she looked when a younger Darcy rambled on about how _exciting_ it must have been to go on all those adventures with Grandmère.

Also, there were explosions, and Darcy does not cope with those in normal ways, especially when she doesn’t have a kitchen nearby to ground herself again.

He finds her again that night, shy and unsure at first. Once again Darcy takes the lead, running her hands through his messy hair as his narrow hips stutter against hers, enjoying the simple pleasure of sex after a day where her world literally turned inside out.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her afterwards, flushed and sweet as he plays with her hair.

“Even when I’m mean?”

“Especially when you’re mean,” he says solemnly, and she laughs. Darcy’s always tried to be the irreverent one, the comic relief, and it’s been hard ever since it felt like fate intervened in her life only to move in stops and starts. Maybe this time it won’t take Thor so long to come back, to keep things interesting around here, to be with Jane like she deserves.

“Mind if I kip here for the night?” Ian asks, and she draws him in close.

“You better, Intern,” she informs him, “you’re totally making breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Thor comes back the next day, and Ian and she last for three months, until Tony Stark pulls them all back to New York and he stays behind. It’s brief but sweet, melting on her tongue like snow, but Darcy thinks she might be ready for the next town.

* * * * *

“I thought I smelled something,” Clint says, ambling onto their floor of the Tower like it’s a public place. Considering the size of the kitchen, it might as well be; apparently in between testing beds with Thor, Jane had informed their new landlord about Darcy’s “hobby,” and so her welcome-to-professional-minion-status present was a kitchen outfitted with all the best toys.

(Vianne’s threatened to arrive alongside the next batch of chocolate she sends to the Tower. “Not yet,” Darcy’s told her. “I don’t know if we’re ready for you.”

“Or Roux,” she says wickedly. “He does keep asking if there’s a young man yet.”)

“What a lovely way to greet someone,” Darcy deadpans, untying her apron from behind her back. Coffee’s always brewing for the Scientists Three, but today there are little chocolate squares to drop into their cups, laced with lemon zest and pink peppercorns to give them a bit of kick. After two years she’s gotten good enough at reading the printouts to see when they’re on the cusp of a breakthrough, and if they can get it done before tonight then Thor’s promised to take her flying. “So nice to see you too. How’s the last two years been?”

“Up and down.” He leans against the cabinet, watches her work, and the air feels heavy and warm with a hint of lightning. “Had some trouble, got out of it; had a girl, she got away.”

“Heard something like that,” she says, because Garcia may be happily married now but he is still a _terrible_ gossip, especially when regularly plied with champagne truffles.

Half the time it’s actually more effective than hacking, which is both hilariously fun and a terrifying indicator of SHIELD’s perception of proper security.

“Still friends, at least?” she asks, reaching over to snag the coffee pot and fill the three mugs of varying sizes and shapes, personalized to each of her charges. Bruce’s is elegant and sturdy in cobalt blue, Tony’s hilariously oversized with two robots holding hands. Jane still uses the chipped New Mexico mug she got in Puente Antiguo, though Darcy usually sets it on a pretty china plate that also looks kind of like a flying saucer.

“Always.” His hand twitches toward the plate of chocolates and just like before, she slaps it away. “Keeping those skills sharp, I see. They should sic you on baby agents.”

“I wouldn’t want to replace the Black Widow as the ultimate threat,” she replies lightly, but she watches him out of the corner of her eye, trying to see how he’ll react. Garcia’s told her _lots_ of stories about Barton and Romanoff, from the arrow necklace she wore until recently to the five times and counting she’s hit him really hard in the head. None of that is Darcy (well, maybe the necklace, but it seems a bit too overt for her tastes).

“I dunno,” he says after a long pause. “Right now, you’re pretty terrifying.”

The last chocolate drops from her hands as she whirls to glare at him, but then he’s cradling her cheek and his mouth is on hers. He tastes wild, and complex, and warm with just a bit of bite to him; she licks inside of his mouth and he shivers, pulling her closer.

All this time she thought it was Thor, the otherworldly source of a wind that blew into her life and sent her into a spin that could either scatter her like ashes or take her home at last.

Maybe she’s had it wrong all along.

“Damn,” he murmurs against her mouth when they break apart at last, their foreheads resting against each other’s. “I should’ve done that a lot sooner.”

“Actually,” she says, hooking her thumbs into his belt loops to pull him in, “I think we’re right on time.”


End file.
